


Woken

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stanford Era, reference to underage sexuality (no underage sex)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2019-09-12 23:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: “You don’t know what I need,” Dean says.





	Woken

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on the SPN Kink Meme.

Sam is raging, absolutely furious: jerked out of his blissful, blackout sleep by Brady’s uneven thumping on their bedroom door. Seriously?  _Seriously?_  Sam’s barely  _seen_  this bedroom in days. The final essay for the 200-level law course he should never have argued his way onto was due earlier this afternoon; for the past two weeks, he’s spent upwards of eighteen hours a day camped out in the campus library behind a fortress of textbooks and files. By the time he handed the thing in, he’d been near-hallucinating, his hands jittery with exhaustion and caffeine. Groping through it, he’d stumbled his way back to the dorms, scrawled a note (DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT WAKING ME); and passed out, fully clothed, on top of his unmade bed.

That must have been about… Sam looks at his watch. Okay, about eight hours ago. But still. Brady should know better. This is the third time this month he’s forgotten his key, and Sam’s getting fed up of being woken at all hours to let in his roommate, however heartfelt the apology after the fact. Actually, Sam’s pretty sure they agreed that if Brady did this again he’d was gonna have to crash at Luke’s, or with one of the other Med Soc guys he likes to hang out with when he’s not spending time with Sam. But apparently right now Brady’s so drunk he’s forgotten all this - and he’s banging on the door again, loud enough that Sam’s worried he’ll wake the RA and get them both in trouble. So Sam shuffles off the bed, stiff and uncomfortable in the jeans and hoodie he’s been wearing for the past four days, and yanks open the door ready to give Brady some serious shit.  
  
He’s struck dumb when Dean slumps into his arms, pale-faced, stubble-cheeked and reeking of booze. Shaken, Sam almost drops his brother straight onto the floor, catching him awkward under the armpits just in time.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean pants, blinking up at him through those stupid long lashes. “Long time no see.”  
  
Dean’s knees aren’t cooperating - too well lubricated with some ungodly combination of cheap spirits, Sam suspects. But he manages to grab his brother by the shoulders of his leather jacket, dragging him effortfully over the floor. Sam bypasses the rolly-wheeled desk chair (which he’s pretty certain is less stable than Dean) in favour of dumping his brother directly onto the bed. Underneath Dean’s sprawling limbs, the comforter is still warm; moments earlier Sam was asleep, right there.

Dean lurches upright, clutches at Sam’s shoulder, breathes fumes straight into his face, and looks away.  
  
“What’s going on, Dean?” Sam says. His heart is in his throat. It’s been, what, nine months since he walked out on Dean and Dad and was told that he shouldn’t bother coming back? And Sam’s heard nothing since then - not a text, not a postcard, not a call. So if Dean’s here, now, then something must be seriously wrong.  
  
Dean’s fingers clench and uncurl over the ridge of Sam’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak.  
  
“Is it…” Sam can hardly say it. “Is it Dad? Has something happened to him?”  
  
Still nothing.  
  
“Is it you? Are you hurt? Dean, please tell me you weren’t driving in that condition.”  
  
“No. I - I parked round the corner. I’ve been in a bar. I was… I wanted to come up earlier but. I needed a drink.”  
  
“What - are you - Dean. Why are you here? Are you hunting? Is there something on campus? Hey, you gotta tell me, man, I have friends here - they don’t know about this shit, I need to be able to protect them. But - then - where’s Dad? Dean? Did you and Dad have a fight?”  
  
“Jeez, Sam, would you cut it out? Just - stop talking.”  
  
With that familiar instruction, a hot flash of rage cuts across Sam’s vision, startling him fully awake.  
  
“Oh right. I’m sorry. I forgot. You don’t like to talk to me anymore. Of course. You just showed up on campus so’s we could sit in the same room and sulk. Didn’t you get enough of that over the past two years? I  _mean_  it, man, this is bullshit -”  
  
“I’m serious, Sam! Please!” There’s a ragged edge in Dean’s voice that brings Sam up short. “I just. I just need to think.”

Sam really tries. He keeps quiet for what feels like hours but what’s probably about three minutes, listening to the rough sound of Dean’s breathing. But then…. then there’s a sniffle, and he catches the glint of what can only be a tear rolling down his brother’s cheek. Oh man. This is serious. Dean doesn’t cry.

Except he did, right? When Sam walked out that door and left the both of them behind him, walked out the family that had been the only constant he’d ever known, Dad’s eyes might have been shining fierce and furious but Dean’s, behind him, had been glistening with tears. It’s a memory Sam returned to dozens of times during the long, lonely weeks of the first semester; one that he still finds himself recollecting often enough, as he struggles with the workload and his wealthy classmates and the constant, niggling feeling that this is somewhere he’ll never belong.

So. Maybe Dean was just lonely. God knows Sam’s been lonely enough, the past few months.

“Hey, Dean, I get it,” he says. “Sometimes you just need to see a friendly face.”  
  
Dean half-laughs, half-sobs. “You don’t know what I need,” he says. His voice is choked. With tears, Sam thinks. With anger. And with something else, something that Sam can’t quite place but which ignites a dark, smoky blackness way deep down inside him.   
  
“Dean?” he says, very soft. “Tell me, then. Tell me what you need. Anything, dude."   
  
Dean looks at him, then. His eyes are red-raw, his eyelashes clumping together. His lips are bitten pink. Sam aches for him, his beautiful strong brother broken down like this.   
  
"I need you to fuck me, Sammy,” Dean says.  
  
Sam thinks he might have blacked out. Or maybe, he’s still asleep. There’s just. There’s no way. No way Dean just said… that.  
  
But now Dean’s started talking, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Sam. Can’t stop thinking about  _you_  - haven’t since you were sixteen years old. You know. When you got bigger than me. Started… all those muscles. God, Sammy, your shoulders. Sam. Your arms. Your fucking monster cock. God, Sam, I’m so sorry. I mean. I know. I get it. You’re my brother, my baby brother, you don’t have to tell me how wrong this is. But I can’t. I just. Sammy, your hands. Want you to spread my thighs and just fucking open me up, want your long fucking fingers inside of me dude, want them, want you, everything, all the way in."   
  
Sam makes a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan.  
  
"Sam. Please. I’m fucking begging you, man.” Dean’s voice is urgent, strained. “I’ve been waiting goddamn years and I thought when you were gone it would be easier but now I can’t even, I can’t even  _see_ you Sam and instead of your face or your voice or every damn thing I love about you all there is in my mind are these fucked-up fantasies, dude, I can’t, I can’t… Please, Sam, please, you gotta give it to me and then maybe I can just stop thinking about it all the time because right now every night, I’m lying in these skeevy motel beds fucking feet away from Dad and all I can think about is you flipping me over and just drilling down into me, man, just fucking me into the mattress until I’m sore and oh Sam I’m so sorry and I don’t know how to stop but please, Sam, Sammy, I’ve drunk fucking buckets of whisky to be able to say this and please just give this to me, this one thing, I need it, Sam, please.”

Sam’s absolutely stunned, his stomach clenching so tight and fast he thinks he might throw up. No. This is fucking insane. This must be… this must be some kind of curse. That’s what it is. Dean’s been cursed to say all this shit and he’s going to regret it so violently when he wakes up - when it wears off. Sam can only hope that he won’t remember at all.   
  
So Sam shakes his head, opens his mouth. He knows what he’s going to say. Dean’s not himself. He’s under a spell. And anyway. They’re brothers. Sam’s never thought of Dean like that. And he wouldn’t - he couldn’t - ever cross that line. Their relationship means too much to him. That’s what Sam intends to say.

But somehow, what he hears, in his own wobbly voice, is “We’re not doing anything while you’re drunk.”

There’s a pause, during which every muscle in Sam’s body seems to turn to ice. And then Dean beams, all of his anger and tension and fear dissipating like clouds on a sunny day.

“Okay, dude,” he says. “You got it. In the morning.” Then he rolls over onto his front, and falls asleep.

Sam’s left panting on the edge of the bed, his dick rock-solid in his jeans. He isn’t certain that he isn’t asleep. Because. Because fuck, he should admit it to himself at least: Dean’s not the only one who’s been wrestling with sick desires.


End file.
